Trouble with the double

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As a kid I always had a cat. They were always there, like a reassuring, comfy rug with claws. Coco, Blue, Bruno, Tyson and DJ were the names of my various moggys. Creatures with attitude who’d give love on their terms only. You never own a cat, it merely lets you look after it.

After much discussion we decided a young cat would be a good addition to our family. Now that we live in the countryside there are mice to kill and monster spiders to devour.

Being the moral angels that we are, it was decided to score a feline from a local cat protection society rather than off some Gucci loafer wearing Essex cat king pin, who presumably breeds cats in an underground Brentwood dungeon.

It was rather surreal to find myself in the middle of Basildon at 10am on a Saturday morning at the wonderfully named ‘bascats‘ surrounded by 50-year-old ladies sporting mum jeans and knitted cat jumpers. Their distinct look they rocked hard, respect!

I was at a cat homing show. After giving my details I walked around and inspected the caged creatures.
A pair of tiny young kittens immediately caught my eye, extremely cute and meowing loud. The previous owners had lost their home, repossessed by the bank. Their meows were filled with heartache and pain. The metal cages contained not only cats but also their sad stories and emotional turmoil.
People were forced to give up their cats for a variety of reasons such as death, accidents and economic hardship but on this particular morning I had to put these tales of woe aside and focus on the task at hand, I was gonna get our family a cat.

Although tempted by their cuteness the young kittens were too fragile. They would’ve ended up either covered in permanent marker pen or in the tumble dryer. My two-year old Theo will colour in anything that moves.
But alas the kittens heartache would soon turn to joy as a family in matching kagools and sensible shoes appeared on the scene and snapped them up.

At the opposite end were the old cats, they looked like they’d seen better days (and a couple of world wars). By now I’d sussed out this cat homing vibe, so when I saw the old couple approaching I gave them a hard stare to try and scare them off. Go and look at another cat you old duffers is what I didn’t say.

‘Hello dear’ said Mrs Brady, old lady.
I politely smiled and moved on, I wasn’t here to make friends and looking around cats were getting snapped up left right and centre. I had to get my hustle on and fast.

My search became more frantic, I’d looked at just about every cat in the room but not one measured up to my high expectations. There was no way I could go home empty-handed, maybe I would have to call up the Essex cat breeding king pin after all.
Just as I was about to give up hope, Molly came into view, immediately I knew my quest was over. I casually strolled over (not wanting her to think I was desperate) and said hello. She put her paw out of the cage and gave me a paw bump. This 6 month old tabby had found herself a new family.